Elsewhere, Gui Shuang stood alone at the edge of a crumbling rope bridge, suspended high between two jagged cliffs veiled in morning mist. Below, the ravine yawned wide—silent, patient, waiting. The wind howled through the ropes, carrying with it the scent of old incense and forgotten prayers from the shrine on the other side. His gaze was distant, fixed somewhere beyond the mountains, as if he could see through time itself.
Behind him, Yun Ling followed like an echo—uninvited, unwelcome, yet as persistent as shadow clinging to stone. He moved with unhurried grace, robes brushing the ground like silk against snow. The fox spirit at his side trotted faithfully, its white tail catching golden morning light.
Gui Shuang resisted the urge to turn and drive him away like a stray animal scratching at the edge of sanctuary. But the weight in his chest stole the strength from his limbs. He was tired. Too tired to argue.
This man—this fox-eyed envoy with a voice like wine and knives—was playing a game. That much he was certain of. And in the end, everyone turned their blades inward. Yun Ling, too, would be no different.
The bridge creaked underfoot as he crossed, each step echoing like a memory. Wooden planks, worn and groaning, swayed slightly beneath his weight. His cloak caught the wind, snapping like a banner of exile.
At the far side, a small group waited—youths in green and golden robes, the embroidered crest of the Ling Shou Sect visible on their shoulders. Wen Mu stepped forward, the same bright-eyed disciple from before, his face flushed with worry.
"Yun-jun! Shuang-jun!" he called out, offering a quick bow. "We've arrived as instructed. Are you harmed, Senior?"
Yun Ling ruffled the boy's hair without pause, his grin as easy as ever. "You've done well. Yun-jun is pleased." He gestured lazily to the others, his tone light. "Introduce yourselves. It's only polite."
The tallest of the group bowed first. "Qin Jianhui, bonded with the spirit of the Wolf. May the moon guide your steps."
Next came a more solidly built youth, the edge of a spiritual shield glinting faintly from his sash. "Li Boyan, Ox spirit. I greet you, Shuang-jun."
Wen Mu gave a smaller, friendlier bow. "You already know me, Senior."
Then a final voice, soft as snowfall, came from behind the others. A slender boy stepped from the shadows—his hair neatly tied, his robes crisp, movements precise.
"Yin Qingge," he said simply. "White Snake."
Gui Shuang's eyes narrowed slightly. So it was him. The one who'd been watching through the mists. Quiet. Careful. Dangerous.
They moved as a group toward the shrine nestled in the cliff side, long since abandoned by both monks and memory. Within its walls, Wen Mu lit thin yellow talismans with flicks of his fingers, conjuring small orbs of light to chase the dust. Fruit was passed around, fresh from their bags. The scent of crushed plum and mountain ginger filled the space.
Gui Shuang said little, seated near the far wall. He brushed aside the last remains of a healing talisman, revealing a closed wound—but the seal on his finger pulsed faintly beneath the skin. The dragon was still restless. Still hungry.
Wen Mu returned with a small clay cup of water, floral and calming. "Would you like help, Shuang-jun?"
Zhao accepted the cup with a faint nod. "This is enough."
His gaze drifted toward Yun Ling, now surrounded by his juniors like a silver moon holding court. He was laughing quietly, a single leg folded over the other, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. So warm. So careless. So deceitful.
"What are you truly after?" Zhao wondered. "The curse? The spirit? Or something else altogether?"Too many questions. No answers. Not yet.
He drank slowly, the feeling of the floral tea blooming across his chest like a delayed sunrise. The others' voices faded to a hum. Candlelight flickered softly, brushing delicate gold across Yun Ling's cheekbones. He looked up, as if feeling the weight of a gaze—and smiled. That fox-like smile, half-mocking, half-curious.
Chen Zhao turned his head away quickly, pretending to study a crack above the doorway.
"Gui Shuang-jun," Yun Ling called, voice silk-wrapped and teasing, "are you admiring the sacred fractures in this divine ceiling? Or has my charm finally pierced the veil around your heart?"
Zhao's fan snapped shut with a sharp flick. His eyes, narrowed and dry as winter wind, shifted to the source of annoyance. "You speak too freely, Yun-jun. Perhaps your tongue should be sealed in meditation."
The juniors froze mid-motion—Jianhui halfway into a bite of dried pear, Boyan awkwardly holding a canteen mid-pour. Wen Mu hastily bowed low to hide his smirk.
Yun Ling only placed a hand to his chest in mock-offence. "Ah, forgive me, Shuang-xiong. I forget how delicate your sensibilities are. Shall I kneel and offer incense to your temper?"
"You may," Zhao said dryly, "but you will find even the gods too weary to humour you."
Wen Mu lost the battle with his grin and ducked lower. "Apologies, Senior," he said, muffled.
Zhao sighed through his nose, reopening the fan with slow, deliberate ease. "Juniors should not follow the example of fools."
"Tch," Yun Ling clicked his tongue, dramatically offended. "You wound me. Will the noble dragon not grant a little healing to this poor, lonely fox?"
Qin Jianhui broke the banter with a calm voice. "Shuang-jun… if I may ask—there are rumours. The elders say you bear the mark of the Founder's Dragon. Is it… true?"
The shrine fell quiet. Even the wind outside stilled. Zhao did not look up. He sipped his tea again, slowly. Then set the cup aside.
"Words," he said softly, "travel faster than truth, and louder than reason. I suggest you trust your own heart, not the echoes of another's fear."
From the far end of the room, Yin Qingge finally spoke. His voice was soft, but it carried. "Yet sometimes… even the heart lies."
Zhao looked up at that. Their gazes met—briefly. Snake to dragon. The boy's eyes were too old for his face. Cool. Calculating. A mirror, perhaps, of the man Zhao once was. He said nothing. There was nothing more to say. So he leaned back once more, his fan resting across his chest like a blade at peace. For now. The candlelight flickered, and in its soft glow, even broken things felt briefly whole.
Yun Ling broke the hush with a stretch that bordered on theatrical, his long limbs unfolding like a languid cat warming itself in the last rays of twilight.
"Enough heaviness," he said, voice lilting with a scholar's playful elegance. "You'll make the fox weep." He nodded toward the small spirit curled contentedly at his lap, who yawned wide enough to flash its tiny canines and gave a lazy flick of its silken tail, as if to say: Yes, enough gloom.
Then, without waiting for invitation, Yun Ling rose and crossed the small chamber with the unhurried grace of someone who had never known rejection. He seated himself beside Chen Zhao—close enough that their sleeves touched, that his warmth bled into the space between them, close enough that it could no longer be dismissed as coincidence.
"Tell me, Shuang-xiong," he murmured, voice dipped low, silk-soft and teasing, "if you will not allow my help… will you at least permit my company?"
Chen Zhao did not answer. But neither did he move away.
Yun Ling's smile curled, a little too satisfied. "I'll take that as a yes."
From across the room, Wen Mu let out a quiet sigh—the long-suffering kind that only senior disciples who'd endured too many of their Master's whims could perfect. He glanced at the others, expression resigned.
"Yun-jun always speaks like he's halfway through a romance scroll," Li Boyan muttered, placing a small porcelain dish of fruit in front of Chen Zhao with two hands and a respectful bow. "Senior, please forgive him. We apologise on his behalf."
Chen Zhao inclined his head slightly, the gesture elegant despite the fatigue still buried deep in his bones. "It is fine. I have met worse."
"Oh?" Yun Ling arched a brow, smile deepening. "Then I'm honoured to rank among your lesser evils."
Chen Zhao didn't dignify that with a reply, instead raising his teacup and sipping in silence. But something shifted—barely, just the subtlest softening of his shoulders, the edge in his posture no longer drawn so tight.
Outside, the trees murmured in the language of leaves and wind. Within the shrine, warmth pooled like evening tea, laughter soft and scattered, the rustle of robes, and the occasional sleepy trill from the fox spirit. Despite himself, Zhao found his thoughts drifting. For a moment—just a moment—this quiet felt like a place outside time. Like a fleeting echo of something once lost. It was not safety. Not yet. But it was the closest Zhao had felt in years to something like rest. And still, deep beneath the surface, the dragon stirred. Unseen.
They remained like that for some time, long enough for the fruit to be eaten, the cups cleaned, and the younger disciples to drift into their own rhythms—some seated in meditation, others tending to their spiritual beasts. The shrine glowed faintly with ward-light, yet the night beyond was quiet. Too quiet. A silence that didn't belong to the living world.
Zhao sat just beneath the eaves, the moonlight silvering his profile. Though his body rested, his spirit walked far-off paths. Still, he allowed the juniors their brief peace. Let them hold onto something gentle. They were still young—their blades untested, their hearts not yet burned hollow. But silence, when drawn too long, uncoils into questions.
"Why did you bring them here?" Zhao asked, his voice barely more than a breath beneath the hush. "These juniors. You know how dangerous this path is now that you travel with me."
Across the room, Yun Ling had been leaning back against a worn pillar, but at those words, he sat up, folding his arms.
"Bring them?" he echoed, tone fond. "Zhao-xiong, they would have followed me barefoot through a sea of blades. Said they were my children. I couldn't leave them behind—not when I knew the storm was already gathering." He paused, gaze shadowed. "And they are precious to me. Each of them."
Zhao turned his head slightly. He had noticed it—just for a heartbeat—the flicker of guilt in Yun Ling's eyes. So rare. So human.
"You're well aware what they might face now," Zhao murmured, fingers brushing over a worn talisman as he inspected it for damage.
"And you," Yun Ling countered, tone softer now, "are well aware of the stories the world tells about you."
Chen Zhao didn't reply.
"They call you the Celestial Light of Morning," Yun Ling went on, a trace of wistfulness threading through his words. "They say your blade, Linghua, cuts only in righteousness. That even winter blooms in your shadow." He smiled faintly. "To them, you are legend."
Zhao rose slowly, dust falling from his robes like ash. "And yet a legend who has taken thousands of lives."
"As we've said before, not all spoken words are truth. Especially those about battles none of us have witnessed." Yun Ling's voice was steady, yet wistful.
With quiet grace, Zhao moved around the shrine, setting the talismans in a protective formation around the shrine with the same meticulous precision he applied to every art. Each one bloomed with a faint glow at his touch, like petals unfurling. When the last was placed, he raised two fingers to his lips and whispered an incantation. The shrine shimmered.
Where broken wood had stood, now gleamed lacquered beams and golden inlays. Lanterns flickered to life. The scent of lotus incense wreathed the air. The ruined place had transformed into something holy—no longer a husk, but a memory. A vision. Illusion. Or perhaps a lingering echo of time.
Li Boyan blinked, breath caught. "Was that…?"
"An illusion?" Chen muttered under his breath. "But… whose?"
Yun Ling stood, clapping once, a grin spreading. "My, our dear friend went all out to impress us!"
Zhao shot him a look, dry and unimpressed. "You know this wasn't my doing."
Then suddenly—the lanterns flickered. And from somewhere within the shrine's heart, a child's laughter rang out—sharp, bright, and terribly wrong. It rang like silver against glass, echoing too long, too hollow.
Everyone froze.
The juniors moved instinctively, falling into practised formation behind their seniors. Their spirit beasts blinked awake, alert, summoned by the shift in air. Even the fox spirit bristled, eyes glowing. Zhao's brow furrowed, his hand already moving toward the hilt at his waist.
The laughter grew distant, then closer—everywhere. And that presence… it wasn't unfamiliar.
Zao Gui. The name surfaced in Zhao's mind like blood rising through clear water.
Ancient spirits, woven from shadow and shrine-dust. Mischievous by nature, forgotten by time, yet still bound by old pacts and older riddles. They lingered only where the gods had long since withdrawn—at the edges of crumbling temples, in the breath between incense smoke and silence.
They were not inherently hostile.
Unless provoked.
"Do not attack," Chen Zhao said clearly, his voice calm but firm, echoing through the moss-lined walls of the ruined shrine. His fingers, however, hovered near the hilt of Xuemie, its glacial aura already stirring beneath the sheath. "No matter what you see. No matter what it becomes."
The disciples behind him stood tense as bowstrings, hands twitching near talismans and spirit beasts alike. Cold sweat dampened their brows. But they nodded.
The creature emerged from the shadowed rafters with a sound like wind rattling bones. Moment later, small figure leapt onto the altar—its body shifting like smoke, barely holding a shape. It resembled a monkey, but no eyes marked its face. Instead, three grinning mouths curved across its head and shoulders, jagged and wild, as if carved by a drunken god with broken glass.
A chill rolled down the spines of the juniors like a whisper of the grave.
Suddenly, the protective talismans placed earlier—painstakingly drawn, empowered with spiritual light—ignited into blue flame, shrivelling to ash in the blink of an eye.
Chen Zhao narrowed his eyes. "So that's why they didn't hold."
"Do not harm it," he warned again, voice quieter now. "This is a Zao Gui. A guardian spirit. Trickster, riddle-weaver. Dangerous only to the unworthy. If we show respect… it will do us no harm."
Boyan swallowed hard. "S-Senior Zhao… what exactly is it?"
"A child of dust and prayer," Zhao replied softly. "It guards forgotten shrines. Sometimes, it guides the worthy. Sometimes, it devours the foolish."
The Zao Gui's laughter ceased. One by one, the whispers in the shrine stilled—like breath held by unseen mouths.
Then, a riddle echoed—not from the creature, but from the air itself. The voice was rasped and cracked, like dust scraping against stone, yet it rang with eerie clarity:
"Ash to ash, and dust to dust,
What was hidden waits in rust.
One who weeps but cannot cry,
Holds the truth beneath the lie."
Zhao frowned, gaze dropping to his robes. He had little to offer—no rare gems, no ancestral tokens. Only—
He drew out the last of his medicinal elixir, a flask of carefully compounded herbs and spiritual dew. Kneeling before the altar, he placed it there with reverence, then bowed low until his forehead kissed the cold stone.
The Zao Gui giggled—an eerie, soundless thing—and offered a bow in return. Then it somersaulted backward, darting up the shrine wall with impossible grace. It paused at a broken window, and a second riddle rolled out:
"One flame for blood, one flame for name,
The third will show from whence you came.
Mother's hush and father's roar,
Sleep beneath the stone-slick floor."
Wen Mu stepped forward, wide-eyed but resolute. "Senior… may I?"
Zhao looked at him, and after a long moment, gave a silent nod. The youth lit a candle with trembling hands, placing it near the altar. The Zao Gui leapt. Another candle. Then third. On the final one, the spirit clapped—its soundless glee visible only in the ripple of its smoke-body.
Zhao nodded in approval. "A clever one," he murmured under his breath.
Then, with a flick of its fingers, the Zao Gui vanished through the broken window. A low rumble began beneath their feet. Stone cracked. Dust fell from the ceiling.
A hidden staircase revealed itself behind the altar—wide enough for three to descend abreast, carved of veined obsidian and etched with ancient glyphs. The air that rose from below was cold, dry, and old. Older than the sect wars. Older than the empire.
"A hidden path…" Yun Ling murmured, lifting his hand to conjure a soft purple flame that hovered at his palm like a captured moon.
They moved forward in silence. Even the fox spirit padded soundlessly. With each step downward, the air pressed tighter—until even breathing required conscious effort.
At last, they reached a fork. Two tunnels opened before them, yawning like mouths in the dark. One shimmered faintly with strands of silver light, almost beautiful in its ethereal glow. The other pulsed with dull crimson—faint, like the last heartbeat of a dying fire. The walls here bore no carvings. Only stains.
The Zao Gui's voice returned, disembodied and distant, yet unmistakably amused:
"Follow not the silver line,
For death it winds in web and spine.
But red that glows and does not burn,
Shall guide the heart where spirits turn."
Zhao stepped forward, reaching toward the crimson streak. His fingers brushed it—and shuddered.
Cold. Not ordinary cold. Not wind or shade, but something bone-deep. The chill of memory. The cold of long sleep in ice and silence.
Then he reached toward the silver thread. It burned. His skin hissed and reddened from just a brush.
"Curious…" he muttered.
Wen Mu stepped beside him and placed his hand over the crimson line. His eyes widened. "Senior… it's warm. Gentle, even."
Zhao's gaze snapped to him. "Warm?"
The other disciples tried as well, confirming the same. Only he… felt the world reversed. To him, warmth brought pain. Light scorched. Cold felt like home.
He stood still, expression unreadable. A long silence passed before he turned his back to the others.
"That is the price," he said softly. "The mark of the Ice Prison."
And with that, he stepped into the crimson-lit tunnel—swallowed by shadows once more. He grimaced, teeth clenched, as a sharp lance of pain surged up his arm. His fingers trembled. The seal burned like fire beneath the skin.
The curse mark—coiled in a deep red ring around his finger—had begun to pulse again. Slow, heavy, deliberate. Like a drumbeat echoing from the depths of his soul. The dragon spirit within stirred—its resentment ancient, bitter, and dangerously close to waking.
Wen Mu followed closely behind, his youthful features drawn in worry. He raised his hands, and with gentle reverence, channelled a stream of soothing energy into Zhao's back. Spiritual energy spread through the tension knotted in his shoulders, dulling the sharper edge of the pain. Not erasing it—but tempering it.
"Thank you," Zhao murmured, voice low, hoarse.
Wen Mu bowed his head slightly. "Please endure it a little longer, Chen-dage. We're almost there."
They pressed forward, step after cautious step, following the crimson trail etched into the floor—like veins pulsing through the corridor. The stone walls narrowed, torches flickering with strange red flames that cast elongated shadows.
At the end of the corridor, the trail stopped before a silent room. No doors, no markings—just two torches glowing on either side of a bare wall. Nothing else.
Then, from the dark, the Zao Gui reappeared. It dropped before them soundlessly, its elongated face twisted in something that was not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. Its voice came as before—like breath pulled through broken reeds.
"Two names lost, yet one shall rise,
Forgotten child with silent eyes.
The blood you bear, the curse you wear,
Was forged in love, and torn in air."
Zhao's breath hitched. His hand—still gloved—shook uncontrollably. Slowly, he peeled the black silk back, revealing the mark that bound his fate.
The cursed ring pulsed, shadows gathering faintly around it like dark mist. As though recognising the moment, the air grew heavier, thick with unseen memory.
Drawn by a force he couldn't explain, Zhao stepped toward the wall the spirit had indicated. His movements were stiff, as if his very bones resisted.
He lifted his hand.
The moment the mark touched stone, pain exploded through his body. Like fire, like frost, like thousands of needles piercing every meridian at once. He barely bit back a scream.
The wall shifted. Stone groaned. Dust spilled from hidden seams. The wall slid open with reluctant weight, revealing the chamber hidden within.
Inside: silence.
A single coffin. Smooth, dark wood, untouched by time. Large enough... for two.
Zhao's eyes darkened. He stepped inside, Xuemie still in his hand but lowered. His breathing came in shallow bursts, each one harder to steady than the last.
The Zao Gui watched, then gave its final riddle, voice now almost tender—like a lullaby twisted by sorrow.
"Raise not your sword with hate unspoken,
Or seal the bond that can't be broken.
But kneel to ash, and speak your name,
The dead may rise—not quite the same."
He stared at the coffin for a long moment.
Then, with slow reverence, he unslung Xuemie and placed it on the ground beside him, the blade humming softly as if in protest.
He dropped to his knees. His voice was no louder than a breath.
"I am Chen Zhao."
He bowed low, forehead to the cold stone.
A creak echoed from within. The lid of the coffin shifted, lifting with a weightless grace unnatural for something so old. A gust of air, thick with ancient grief, passed over them.
Inside—
Two bodies, perfectly preserved. A man and a woman, their features serene in eternal rest. The woman's hand was curled around something—delicate, wooden.
Zhao's throat tightened. Trembling, he reached forward and gently pried open her fingers.
A piece of wood, carved and weathered with age. The grain had faded. But one word remained clear.
'Zhao.'
His name.
His knees gave out. He clutched his hand to his chest as the curse flared with blistering pain, swallowing all thought.
"Does anyone here…" he gasped, "know the art of communing with the dead?"
"I do," came a quiet voice behind him.
Yun Ling. His expression was unusually solemn.
"At last," he murmured, stepping forward. "Allow me to help… Shixiong."
The title fell like a bell in the stillness.
Zhao froze, eyes wide, but said nothing. Yun Ling summoned Mei with a soft click of his tongue. The fox spirit padded forward, glowing faintly in the shadows.
He knelt beside the coffin and gestured to the empty spot at his side. "Come. It requires both of us."
After a heartbeat of hesitation, Zhao sat. Cross-legged. Silent. A mirror to the man beside him.
Together, they channelled their energy—Zhao's cold, solemn, carved in pain. Yun's—warm and curious, flickering like candlelight. Mei nestled between them and glowed brighter, weaving their qi like threads into the air. The chamber darkened.
And then—
The vision came. The dream he had so often. A woman smiling, sunlight on her face. A man behind her. Then—blood. Screams. But this time, more.
A man in white and gold beside young Zhao. A throne behind him. A hand extended.
And another child. Hiding in the shadows. Witnessing every detail. From afar.
Zhao gasped as the vision broke. He awoke in the chamber, drenched in sweat.
Beside him, Yun Ling was coughing violently, one hand pressed to his chest, skin pale as moonlight.
Zhao instinctively reached out. "Yun—"
"I'm fine," Yun Ling rasped, waving him off with a weak smirk. "Just… give me a moment."
Zhao looked to the coffin. The bodies were dissolving—ashes to ash. A trail of dust slipping between cracks in the stone floor, returning to the earth.
Their purpose fulfilled.
He stared long after the last fleck of ash vanished. He had more questions than ever.
And still—no answers. Only silence. Cold, unrelenting silence.
He did not remember their faces. The ones in the coffin—those called his parents—were little more than shadows without shape, voices without sound. They had been taken from him before his legs could carry him, before he even knew what the word family meant. The only remnants left behind were a spirit that clung to him like fog on a winter morning, and a weathered wooden name token, its edges worn smooth by time and prayer.
Even their deaths, violent and cold as they must have been, stirred no mourning in him. If that was cruelty, then it was the kind of cruelty shaped by silence—not choice. If the dreams that came to him in restless sleep were to be believed, their killers had worn robes dyed in imperial crimson, fingers marked with jade signets and voices dripping honeyed commands. But dreams were dreams. Smoke. And smoke could lie.
In truth, the only figure he had ever looked upon as a parent was his Shizun. That quiet, radiant figure who had taught him how to stand. How to endure. How to hold a sword and still speak with compassion.
But even that memory had been scorched by the fire of war.
*
The morning air was damp, cool, and heavy with the scent of pine. Pale sunlight spilled like rice paper across the treetops, and mist clung low to the ground, winding between their legs as if reluctant to let them pass.
Yun Ling stretched with an audible groan, arms thrown over his head. "Aiyo… my bones! I swear this forest conspires against me. I must've slept on a root—or perhaps I've aged ten years overnight!" He rubbed his shoulders with theatrical woe, face contorted in mock agony.
Chen Zhao spared him a glance, one brow raised in quiet scepticism. "Didn't you boast yesterday that you once meditated atop cold stone for three days and three nights without moving?"
"Yes, yes," Yun waved him off without shame. "That was before. Don't mock me, Zhao-xiong. I've become gentle in my old age."
From behind, Wen Mu stifled a giggle. "Shixiong, you just didn't want to help gather firewood."
"I was conserving my qi!" Yun declared with mock gravity, striking a pose. "One must preserve spiritual essence for higher cultivation! You'll thank me when I ascend and bestow heavenly blessings. You'll all be begging for my talismans!"
Li Boyan, nearly swallowed by his oversized pack, muttered, "If you become a celestial, will your cooking improve too?"
That earned a scandalised gasp. "You ungrateful child! That soup was perfectly edible!"
Chen Zhao, who had remained silent until now, blinked once and murmured in his usual flat tone, "It was blue."
A long pause.
"That was... an experimental recipe," Yun said defensively, tugging at his collar.
"I saw a frog in it," Wen Mu added helpfully.
"That was a medicinal herb shaped like a frog! Ancient. Rare!"
Laughter rippled through the group like wind across rice fields. But instead of scolding, Chen Zhao only murmured:
"…Just don't poison the sect. That's my only request."
The disciples froze—then blinked at each other. Was that a joke?
Li Boyan ran to catch up to him, face alight with curiosity. "Senior Zhao… do you ever want to laugh? Even a little?"
Chen Zhao looked down at the boy, his expression unreadable. "…I do not need to laugh to understand joy."
"But do you want to?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, so quietly it could have been mistaken for wind: "… Perhaps."
A simple word. But in it was the sound of old ice beginning to thaw. And that, for the disciples, was enough.
The path wound gently uphill. Their boots crunched through frost-dusted undergrowth, and pale clouds finally parted, letting a sliver of blue sky peek through like a promise not yet broken. Somewhere, a bird called—a single note of song brave enough to pierce the cold.
Yun Ling walked beside Chen Zhao now, arms folded behind his back. His gait was easy, his expression unreadable but his tone teasing. "You know… I think the juniors are starting to like you."
Chen Zhao didn't respond.
"But don't worry," Yun added, flashing a fox-like grin. "I'll make sure they don't get too attached. We wouldn't want them sobbing dramatically when you vanish like a rogue cultivator from a sad opera."
Chen Zhao gave him a sidelong look. "Do not make them soup."
"I make excellent soup," Yun huffed.
"No. You make blue soup."
"Once!"
The laughter that followed was lighter than before—less startled, more familiar. It echoed gently through the trees, warming the cold like distant bells in spring.
And so, beneath towering pines and a brightening sky, they continued on. Toward the next shrine. Toward another truth. Footsteps steady, hearts uncertain. But for this small, flickering moment, there was laughter.
And sometimes—just sometimes—that was enough.
---
40. -jun (君) - lord, gentleman, monarch, or noble one; it's used to refer to: rulers, lords, refined man, polite term for 'you'.
41. Qin Jianhui (秦剑辉) - 'Radiance of the Sword'; wielder of Wolf spirit.
42. Li Boyan (李柏言) - 'Words of the Cypress'; wielder of Ox spirit.
43. Yin Qingge (殷清歌) - 'Clear Melody of Depth'; wielder of white Snake.
44. Zao Gui (造鬼) - 'To create ghosts'; it's a revenant spirit, ghost puppet, offering riddles, puzzles and letting go only worthy ones.
45. -dage (大哥) - Big Brother; used by younger disciples or companions to address a senior male peer.
46. Shixiong (师兄) - Senior Martial Brother; It's used to address a male disciple who entered the same sect or school before you—regardless of actual age.